


The Paper Moon

by missmollyetc



Series: Murphy's Crew [3]
Category: Tour of Duty (1987)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Murphy's Laws of Combat # 26</b></p><p><i>"Anything you can do can get you shot ... including doing nothing." </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Paper Moon

It stood to reason that the best relationship of his life took place when the other guy was higher than Jesus. It stood to even more reason that the whole thing had been almost completely platonic, 'cause this here boy...was a gentleman, yes sir. A tried and true Southern gent and, in the written version of the gentleman's code, one did not take advantage of a delicate flower. In the unwritten version of course, one took advantage of every damn thing that moved, crawled, or had an appropriate orifice.

Some days, Doc wished his mama had raised him that way--the real way--rather than in those faded, pressed posy dreams of Southern gentility. Every time he thought of it, he could hear her going on and on about a man's duty to his girl with her songs playing on the phonograph behind her.

_Say it's only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea..._

Of course, there were problems. When your 'delicate flower' was a strapping, blond-haired soldier boy hopped up--then wrung out--by heroin, and you were a murdering pacifist, it complicated matters. Mama hadn't covered that part of his education, but the Army sure was fillin' in the gaps.

And, you understand, 'gaps' were exactly the problem. Well, specifically, one gap. A rather large one too, right in his stomach (so of course he was bleeding like a stuck pig) perforatin' what felt like a rather substantial portion of his internal organs. 'Course, what else would you expect when there were bombs goin' off all 'round him like a Fourth of July picnic?

The ground was particularly hard underneath his head--felt like he'd collapsed on some broken curb. The girl--wonder of wonders, the girl--hadn't a scratch on her pretty skin. Last he'd seen, she'd taken off down a side street. Good for her. No one got anywhere thinkin' of the other fella.

He was probably supposed to be screaming right about now, but there didn't seem t'be any _air_ left in the air and...

See, when you took the second to figure on the other guy--to see him as human--that was when mistakes started happening. Shit got stirred up. People died. People got sent to the Dispensary. People got stuck watchin' their boys--their patients--go out and get torn up and knowing that you--that they wouldn't get the help they needed. A fucking dislocated shoulder from a rowdy basketball game wasn't the same as a sucking chest wound from a pungee stick, now was it?

The ground shook; the wail of a siren sunk its claws into Doc's head. He coughed and blew bubbles with the blood dripping down his mouth. Well, he sure as hell wasn't gonna miss the noise.

Doc pressed his hands down on the wound in his stomach. He closed his eyes to block out the grit floating through the air. Danny's face popped up behind his eyelids. A veritable parade of Dannys. Only not Danny as he'd last seen him, but before the whole--horrible...just before.

It was Danny slack with exhaustion from withdrawal...almost like a child, when he wasn't puking his guts out draped over Doc's lap. Then, it was Danny with all the toxins worked out of his system. Danny smiling, Danny touching, Danny standing close, giving Doc first taste of his mother's cookies. Kissing him in the shower while Doc was in mid-sentence. Doc ground his teeth together and kicked his feet against the ground. He managed to shove himself a good three inches before his head hit something hard, and he collapsed. He groaned. There was that air he'd been missing.

He was in shock. Somewhere in the back of his head, he realized it was the only explanation for why he wasn't screaming louder than that damned siren. Why the fuck did they have those anyway? So people would know they were being bombed? How very fucking polite.

Shit, he really was fucking shocky. Losing sight of his priorities. He propped his head on whatever it was he'd collided with, and forced his eyes open to assess the damage. Shit, he was all over blood. Alcohol plus severe trauma plus . . . what? A broken heart? How very poetic, how very Southern of him. The patient died from an overdose of Tennessee Williams, ma'am. So very sorry, y'all.

Any second now he was gonna bleed out in a fucking dirty little street in Viet-fucking-nam and--another blast exploded down the alley to Doc's right. For a second, Doc thought he'd gone deaf. Nothing moved, not even the air. He couldn't hear the siren.

"Jesus!"

The shout was loud enough to startle another groan from Doc. He rolled his head in the direction of the voice, and squinted. Nope, sorry son, no Lord and Savior here.

The GI--the kid, really--was squatting in a doorway a few feet away from Doc. The GI stuck his head around the door sill, and looked up at the sky.

"I think--I think it's over," he said.

Doc blinked.

The GI took a cautious step out of the door and bent over Doc. "You okay, buddy?"

Doc popped another blood bubble between his lips. "...Marvin?"

"No, I'm Ronnie," the GI said, running dirty fingers over his crew cut. "Jesus, you got the shit shot out of you, you know that? Okay, just hang on for a sec, I'm--I think I see a jeep up the street and I...Jesus!"

The GI turned his head away and vomited. He scrubbed his knuckles over his mouth. Doc would've laughed, but something was jiggling in his stomach that never had before. It was distracting.

"It's...s'okay." Doc coughed.

"Yeah, yeah, so . . ." Ronnie took off his jacket and pressed it against Doc's stomach. "Look, we gotta move, okay? We gotta keep moving."

Ronnie slung Doc's arm around his shoulders and lifted Doc off the ground.

Doc screamed.

"Shit! I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . ." Ronnie took a deep breath and began jogging down the street, muttering "I'm sorry" over and over until they'd reached the jeep.

Doc let his eyelids slide shut as the GI set him down in the back, letting gravity mold him into the bench seat. Ronnie gripped both of his hands, and pressed them over his stomach. Doc clutched at the damp folds of Ronnie's shirt. His teeth were chattering. Not good. Not...good...

"Just, we gotta keep moving, that's all," the GI said. "It's harder to hit a moving target and there's no telling when it'll start again. So...stay with me, okay? Okay, buddy?"

Doc shivered. "Wha..."

Doc heard the sound of an engine revving.

"So, what's your name, buddy? Hey? Hey! Stay with me! What! Is! Your! Name!"

He slowly opened his eyes. The sky above was white. "Doc," he said. "I'm . . . Doc."

**Author's Note:**

> The characters of Tour of Duty do not belong to me. No profit is being made from this story.


End file.
